


Advent

by Boz (Bozaloshtsh)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2818106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bozaloshtsh/pseuds/Boz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Christmas spirit is decidedly lacking at Wayne Manor. Alfred doesn't know how to make Bruce believe, and Jim's not sure Bruce should believe. Selina is just in it for the cheesecake. Spoilers up until the Season 1 winter finale (Ep 10), and what I imagine will be canon divergence once we return for Ep 11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stelladelnordxd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelladelnordxd/gifts).



 

> "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,  
>  The courage to change the things I can,  
>  And the wisdom to know the difference."
> 
> \-- Reinhold Niebuhr

 

Jim doesn't know how it starts, only that it does, and more often than not, that it goes like this: Jim Gordon and Alfred Pennyworth routinely beat the crap out of each other. Or really, if Jim's being completely honest, Alfred -- way more often than not -- hands his ass to him on a weekly basis. Combined with the man's unique approach to the idea of polite service, Jim's more than halfway convinced he's more Bruce's bodyguard, less Bruce's guardian cum butler.

"Anybody ever tell you you're exceptionally fast for a man pushing fifty?"

Jim knows there's exasperation coloring his tone, but he hasn't got a hope in the world of hiding it; he's a bad liar, Alfred knows him too well. He does manage to dodge the next sweeping kick aimed at his front leg and feints back before the following jab can connect with his jaw.

"Anybody ever tell you you're a whiny little shite?"

There's a kind of brittle amusement that lingers in the butler's eyes, and Jim is grudgingly aware that the next few darting strikes at his core are deliberately sloppy for his benefit. It's not a gracious allowance at all, and it makes Jim roll his eyes as he dances away, wiping at the sweat on his forehead. Apparently the man's thin courtesy only extends as far as his service on behalf of Bruce. Whatever this sparring or practice is, doesn't count.

"If you wanted someone who'd let you push them around, perhaps someone too clumsy to make you work up a bit of a sweat, might I suggest that fat slob of a man you have the distinct pleasure of calling a partner?"

"I'll take your suggestion under advisement, thanks," Jim replies and tries to force his sarcasm to smother the laugh that threatens at the idea of trying to have anything like an organized fight with actual rules with Harvey. It wouldn't be pretty.

Not that this really is either. He doesn't need to touch his face to know the soft space behind his left jaw is already swollen, bruise blooming. It's a good thing Jim never put much stock in pretty.

Every now and then, since they usually do this in the yard, Jim's caught Bruce watching them from the third floor windows. It's never critical, inasmuch as Jim can tell, but curious. Hungry, even. Jim's positive Alfred knows. If the man's concerned, he never shows it.

It's because he's checking the windows for the tell-tale movement of the curtains out of the corner of his eye that Alfred's sucker-punch (straight to the gut, the cheap bastard) connects and connects _hard_. Jim rolls with it and to the side as best as he can manage, lashing out with his heel at the inside of Alfred's closest knee, but the man lithely maneuvers back and away.

"You know, if you're head's not in it detective, I'd be happy to take a rain check," Alfred says, no trace of mockery or derision. "If I felt like hitting a punching bag, we have plenty of 'em in the garage. Less of a bloody mess."

Jim looks down at his hands, watches them curl and uncurl like something mechanically alien from his brain. His body is restless, but if Jim's being honest, his body is almost always restless. He digs his nails into his palms. He breathes.

"That might be best," Jim sighs. "Actually. Not putting up much of a fight today."

"That's alright, sir. I'm pretty used to you not putting up much of a fight," Alfred responds pleasantly, pulling on his jacket.

Jim glares openly, even as the older man clasps his hand in truce. "Besides, I had something I wanted to talk to you about once we were done, if you don't mind."

"What's up?" Jim asks, only mildly concerned.

"Master Bruce has systematically destroyed every box of Christmas ornaments I have managed to squirrel away over the last year. Always for various different reasons, you see, none of them the least bit incriminating -- he's getting much better at that."

Jim stops short, eyebrows raised. "You're worried about Christmas ornaments."

"The day itself is only a week away, and while the tree itself won't be that hard to procure," Alfred waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the nearest clump of evergreens. "We have nothing. No tinsel, no bloody baubles, no wreathes, no jarringly festive lights, no presents wrapped in ridiculously gaudy paper -- nothing."

"Don't sound so upset about it, Al," Jim says mildly, following the man in through a set of the french doors that lead into the massive ground floor kitchen just as the first flurries start to fall onto the bleak landscape entombing the Wayne Manor.

"I hate the holiday, it's a farce of a decent idea -- nevertheless, I didn't hate the holiday when I was Master Bruce's age, and that's the point."

"Bruce is hardly a typical kid," Jim scoffs.

"You think I don't know that?" Alfred slams his hands down on the counter, and the sound makes Jim stop in his tracks. "You think I don't know that best of all?" Alfred says again, a little more quietly.

"Why is this bothering you so much?" Jim asks, feeling oddly helpless.

Alfred snorts, and for a minute, Jim doesn't think the man will answer him. "Because the point of Christmas is faith."

Jim is surprised. The Waynes had never been overtly religious, not in the media anyway, and from his interactions with Bruce, the kid seems of a far too empirical a bent to have any interest in believing in any sort of intangible omnipotent force. Alfred himself Jim wouldn't have figured for a Sunday church-goer.

"Faith," Jim parrots cautiously.

"Not -- not believing in God, per se, you understand, but the idea of faith. The idea of believing in something unprovable, or something --" Alfred rubs his hand over his mouth in a frustrated tick Jim has become more familiar with over the past months. "Something fundamentally unknowable."

"Bruce simply accepting something as unknowable seems highly unlikely, don't you think?" Jim says.

And it's not that he disagrees with Alfred, not exactly -- but he doesn't think it's outright unnatural or wrong for the kid to be on shaky terms with the idea of the inherent good in people, especially after his parents were killed right in front of him. Especially, Jim reminds himself cuttingly, when their actual murderer still hasn't been brought to justice.

Jim remembers what it was like, the first few months back after his last tour of duty. Not as if it's something he's ever really likely to forget or move past, not entirely, but -- it was bad. Jim comes from a long line of family dedicated to the service of their community -- his dad was a cop, his mother was an Army nurse, grandparents on both sides in military service -- teachers, guardians, healers. That's how he was raised to consider service, as the Gordon family trade. But there was never any mincing the fact that service was difficult. His mother had come home one time over winter break when he was still in junior high, middle of her shift -- woke him up out of bed when the door slammed shut at 4am, dad was on duty at the precinct, Jim had greeted her at the door with a jackrabbit pulse and bat in her hand and she hadn't been angry, she'd just looked so _tired_ \-- and was covered, practically head to toe, in tuna salad and urine. A drunk, miserable regular patient at the VA had thrown three sandwiches at her because he didn't like tuna and then whipped out his willy (she'd always called them willies, even up until she'd passed away and Jim was a grown man) and urinated on her shoes for good measure in the middle of the ER. She'd pantomimed the drunken fool attempting to aim for his shoes and had Jim laughing hard enough that she brought a smile to her own face. She refused to make him tuna sandwiches for half a year after that.

But she didn't quit because her patients treated her like garbage; Janet Gordon had gotten right back up the next day and headed in to work in the afternoon like nothing had happened. Jim remembers asking her if she'd quit the next day while helping put her shoes into a garbage bag, mopping the floor so she could sit down on the toilet seat and run a bath for herself.

"Of course not," she'd scoffed, and given Jim a look. "If I had a dollar for every time someone in need was an ungrateful son of a bitch, we'd be living on the upper east side in a penthouse with a claw-foot tub and a boiler that could actually fill it with enough hot water for a nice, long bath."

"Why, then? Why do that? Why do you let them be mean to you, when you work so hard to do right by them? It doesn't make any sense, Ma."

"Oh, Jim." She'd smiled. It hadn't been a happy smile, but it hadn't made Jim feel sad, either. "You don't help people in hopes that they'll be grateful, you help them to remind yourself being good to other people is a choice. Just like being bad to others is a choice. There are people out there that will try and tell you that people just _are_ a certain way, good or bad. They'll use that to justify how they themselves behave to those people they've decided can't help but be a certain way. But that's a lie."

It's years later, and Jim only still half understands. He's pulled out of his thoughts by the smell of coffee wafting from the cup Alfred's been holding out to him for God only knows how long. Any response to Jim's comment about Bruce flew right over Jim's head. Jim blinks, and feels his cheeks coloring slightly in the face of the butler's indefatigable patience.

"I -- uh, sorry, Alfred," Jim tries, grabbing for the coffee inelegantly.

"No need to apologize, sir. You are hardly the only person in who's company I spend time that loses themselves in their thoughts," Alfred says, turning back to the coffee press and pouring himself a cup.

"Did you want me to talk to him?" Jim asks, after a few cautious sips of coffee -- excellent coffee, actually, and Jim's not entirely sure why that surprises him.

"To Master Bruce?" Alfred leans back against the counter, making a show of considering the idea.

"Yeah. Maybe approach it from a different angle -- he have any friends at school he might want to have over?"

Alfred -- Jim thinks he might've giggled. His eyebrows shoot into his hairline as Alfred splutters around the sip of coffee he inhaled and holds up a hand.

"Ah, no -- no friends at school, I'd say. Actually, as a project in socialization, school has generally failed rather spectacularly."

"Why? He being picked on?"

"Of course he is."

"Why?" Jim's been impressed by the kid's drive to adapt, remembers what he was wearing when he ran out with Selina Kyle during that home invasion mess earlier in the year, remembers that Kyle tolerated well enough not to just dump him somewhere or rob him, and the fact that with Kyle, that actually _means_ something.

"Because he's not a little boy, mate," Alfred sighs. Jim knows exactly what he means.

He finishes his cup of coffee, rinses it out in the sink and puts it in the dishwasher, absently, while also checking his text messages. Three missed from Harvey: two of them drunken propositions Jim's pretty sure were meant for someone named Jimella, one a quick morale check-in masquerading as an insult since Jim's still stuck on the Arkham detail -- plus, Jim's half convinced Harvey misses him, which warms him a little inside. Jim has one more, from his new Lieutenant, telling him he's been mandated to work a double shift because one of his upstanding, dedicated co-workers has mysteriously fallen ill after betting his mortgage payment on the ponies last night and has now subsequently decided not to show up to work. What this means is that Jim now has to go to work 6 hours early. What that also means is the weekly voicemail he's been leaving Barbara is going to have to be shuffled off till tomorrow, which chews at his patience just a little.

"Listen, Al, I gotta run -- work," Jim looks up at Alfred, pausing a second. "But seriously, if you want me to, I'll talk to the kid."

"Master Bruce has, actually, been bothering me to invite you over for tea for the last few days, if it pleases you."

"Call me to set it up," Jim says in lieu of goodbye, half-saluting the man, gathering his jacket, and jogging out the door into the falling snow.

It's a long dash through the front yard to the car-park for guests, and the flakes that fly into Jim's face are cold enough to feel like tiny pieces of broken glass. There's movement and light that catches the corner of his eye as he jogs along, and when he looks up, he can see Bruce in the windows by the library -- he's lit small, white candles and placed them on the window mantels. He looks up, meets Jim's eye. He waves, and Jim waves back, smiling slightly, before climbing in his car and speeding down the driveway back into Gotham proper.

 

*

 

Jim hasn't been at work for even a full four hours, when Harvey comes swaggering up to the intake guard post, all aggressive nonchalance. It's a surprise. He hadn't let Jim know he was coming.

"Detective Bullock."

" _Officer_ Gordon."

"Sound a little happier about my demotion, Harvey, otherwise I might actually think you miss me," Jim grins.

"Not to worry, Jimmy, nothings changed since you left; Alvarez is still trading crack from the evidence locker for tips with the hot-dog cart hobos on his lunch break, McCarthy's screwing hookers on duty to avoid the run-around with his wife, I hear Montoya is Fish's new lesbian lover," and at that, Harvey makes some utterly ridiculous and obscene tongue wiggling gesture that has Jim protesting as hard as he's laughing despite the tightness that name invokes in his chest.

"Christ, Harvey, stop."

"And they're all predictably piling the actual policework into boxes and leaving them on your desk for when you return from this shithole detail," and with that, Harvey plops himself down on the intake bench across from the guard station.

"I think you mean _if_ I return, Harvey," Jim sighs and stands up. His new partner, Harold Leong, is snoring with his mouth half closed in the other chair. His wife just had a kid, the man's up all night, and Jim knows he's one of maybe a handful of people who's at Arkham voluntarily because the wife asked him to put in for a transfer to somewhere safer. He's not a good cop, but he's a pretty alright person, and not terrible company -- it's hard to be bad company when you sleep most of the time, Jim's found -- so Jim lets him be, slides open the Plexiglas window so he doesn't have to shout for Harvey to hear him.

"I meant what I said, kiddo. It's a detail, not a reassignment; your detective rank is a civil service title, one you earned fair and square. They can't take that from you unless you actually fuck up. So far, you've only managed to actually do your job," Harvey tips his hat conspiratorially. "Which, granted, counts as screwing up in this town, but until they feel comfortable openly admitting that anyone not with the program is persona non grata, you just gotta deal with getting your pee-pee slapped every once in a while."

"I wish I could be so sure," Jim says. "This place is designed to kill optimism." And Jim's not lying -- toxic green linoleum flooring, ancient iron cages, old red fabric cushioning on all of the chairs in the guard booths and in population -- the kind that always seems perpetually damp with some kind of bodily fluid and never, ever, clean. He's seen some of the ward floors, and renovated Jim's ass. It looks like a nut house movie set from the 60s, and those are the parts where the supposed "renovation" has already taken place.

"Nah, you're useful. As much as Mayor James may hate you, may be trying to ruin your career, even the mob needs the city police to have good detectives. And God help us all, Jim, because despite your best efforts," Harvey says, fiddling with his hat. "You are a good detective."

And Jim doesn't really know what to say to that, so he opts for an utterly self-conscious: "Uh, thanks. Harvey."

Harvey looks up at him, quietly considering his face for a second before sighing. "Speaking of which, Jimmy, I am here to collect you. Huge jewel heist at that place downtown -- Astro? You know it? Has all this weird shit like fossils and extinct bugs frozen in amber -- anyway, huge jewel heist, and the only witness to the whole thing is one of your CIs. Won't talk to anyone but you."

"Which CI?" Jim asks, frowning a little.

"Kid. Girl. Has this whole neo-punk thing going for her, including these weird goggle things --"

"Selina Kyle," Jim sighs and scrubs his face.

"Yeah, sounds right. Come to think of it, she did look familiar -- why did she look familiar?"

"Don't worry about it, Harvey. I'll come with you. The captain already speak to my desk sergeant?"

His old partner's response to that is to hand him the paperwork that makes him Harvey's responsibility for the day. Jim wakes Leong as gently as he can to let the man know he'll be solo for a few hours, and places the papers Harvey gave him into the sergeant's inbox next to the crudely put together "Out to Lunch, Fuck Off!!" sign propped up on the desk. Jim takes mild pleasure in knowing his sanctioned disappearance will piss the man off and makes a mental note to not return before his supervisor's shift is up.

A quick trip to the property locker to collect his service weapon, and then he's following Harvey out to where his banged up Cadillac is waiting like a sight for sore eyes. The car itself still smells like cheap cigarillos, citrus air freshener, and dirty underwear, but it's freedom. Jim smiles for the first time in a long time while still at work.

 

*

 

Like usual, Selina's somehow not in a jail cell. The only difference is, she's usually on point with knowing he's coming up on her -- Jim guesses his gait is different enough when he's in issue boots and uniform versus plainclothes that she has no idea it's him. She looks good, lively. Not half-starved. Jim knows better than most that she can take care of herself, but it's still like a little weight off his shoulders every time he actually sees that she's OK.

Jim gives her a second to register that he's standing next to him, before her posture changes to clear irritation, and she's rolling her eyes so hard her head seems to follow their path as it turns.

"Look, buddy, I don't wanna talk to some rookie flatfoot -- it's like I told your captain, get me Detective -- holy _crap_!" and Jim smiles a bit at her frank surprise.

"Detective Holy Crap has a nice ring to it, I just might have it legally changed," Jim quips, cocking his head to one side watching her look him up and down utterly flabbergasted.

"I can't believe they demoted you!"

"What's so hard to believe about it? I'm actually a little surprised it didn't happen sooner," Jim says. "You know how angry grown-ups get when you don't play nice in their sandbox."

"They're worse than kids playing in an actual sandbox, which is kind of sad the longer your stop to think about it," Selina agrees, standing up. "Upside is, you look pretty spiffy in the blues. Bet your girlfriend agrees, huh?"

Selina waggles her eyebrows at him, and it takes her second to realize it's not Jim stoically rebuffing her obnoxious banter, but actually being stoic. Her face sours.

"Aww, man, you get demoted _and_ your girlfriend breaks up with you? You're having a shitty few months, aren't you?"

"You drag me back to my old post for a reason, kid?" Jim deflects.

"Oh, yeah, sure, big tip on where the loot on that jewel robbery was fenced, but first things first, Detective Gordon, I want my pay-out," Selina says, matter-of-fact.

"Officer Gordon, and they don't budget for that kind of big spending when your job is to make sure the nuts stay in the nut-house," Jim says shrugging his shoulders helplessly.

"I'll give you a discount on my usual rate -- just because I feel sorry for you Detective, don't think I've gone soft," Selina declares imperiously, and marches off towards the front door.

"That's Officer Gordon, Miss Kyle," Jim tries again, but Selina waves off his correction and she bounds down the steps of the precinct, barely glancing back at Jim to make sure he's following.

"Detective suits you better."

Jim keeps up with her well enough as she scampers through the street, before diving into a coffee shop diner famous with the locals for their cheesecake. The maitre d' is on point and grabs her by fabric of her hoodie as she attempts to weasel past him, is wrestling her bodily out of the place when Jim ambles in across the threshold and assures the man, yes, he is with the young lady, and yes, he will be paying for them both.

Selina makes a show of fixing her coat as she ignores the table the server offers them and picks one of the plush booths in the back. Jim smiles apologetically at the server, who scowls, and plops menus unceremoniously in front of them before stalking off without asking them for their drink order.

"You're so good at making friends, it's a wonder more people don't like you," Jim says mildly, watching Selina's eyes roam hungrily over the items listed as quickly as she's able to flip the pages.

"I'm not in this business to make friends, Jimbo," she drawls, touching the laminated pages almost reverently as she flips to a full page spread of the picture menu for their cakes and pies.

"Please don't call me Jimbo, _Selina_."

"Fine, fine, spoilsport. I think I'll order a whole plain cheesecake," Selina declares. "The fruit toppings are always too sweet, and pie is totally gross. Who eats pie when they could be eating cheesecake?"

"People who like pie?"

"People like that exist?"

Jim rolls his eyes. "Could we maybe do it half plain, half blueberry? Compromise?"

"Woah, woah, compromise nothing -- order your own cheesecake, buddy. Who said anything about sharing?"

"You want a whole cheesecake?"

"And an order of mozzarella sticks, a pot of coffee, and the poached salmon -- though that last one we can get to go."

"I'm sorry, did I wake up this morning with the word sucker written on my forehead?" Jim asks, a little exasperated.

"In permanent marker, Detective." Selina smiles sweet as syrup.

"Maybe I don't care that much about gems," Jim presses his mouth into a line and slaps his hands down on the table, making it look like he's going stand up. Selina kicks him under the table.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Detective Gordon. Honest. Clyde down by River Street, Pier 42, the rat-faced European guy with the gross hair, sounds all -- _mooz ahnd squeereel_ , but only once you piss him off -- you know? He's the fence. He has the crap from the robbery that's got the GCPD all twisted, hasn't had the time to sell it yet," and Selina says it like it's all simple fact, a little proud in her knowledge, like telling a juicy secret.

Jim watches her, narrowing his eyes. Doesn't say anything until the server finally comes back, and only speaks to order then. Gets everything on the menu Selina asked for. She stares back at him calmly, until Jim finally smiles -- all teeth.

"Clyde usually moves his product pretty fast, how do you know he hasn't had time to sell it yet?"

"Call it a hunch," Selina counters.

"Uh-huh," Jim snorts. "Or someone -- possibly even the cat-burglar themselves -- planted the product on an unsuspecting Clyde Fast-Hands, and he doesn't even know he has high-profile stolen goods in his warehouse."

Selina's face stays so pointedly neutral, it's painful.

"Come to think of it, wasn't Clyde the fence that gave you and Bruce Wayne up when you came to him looking for asylum a few months back after the scuffle at Wayne Manor?"

"You with robbery now, Detective? What does it matter to a trumped-up asylum security guard?"

Jim sucks on his teeth and has to look away for a minute.

"And besides," Selina continues after a minute, starting to get a little flustered. "If what you're alleging is true, the least Clyde deserves for giving up two kids to be slaughtered like pigs is a little bit of jail time for fencing stolen goods, don't you think? I mean, he just got away with it. It was totally overlooked when the police dealt with the situation, and he's still out there on the street every day dealing with kids just like me, making money off chumps _just like me_ , without a care in the world because he thinks everyone he deals with is disposable. Trash that no one in Gotham cares about at all.

"And if Gotham won't take care me, Detective, I'll take care of myself. I'm pretty good at it, too."

"Yes," Jim laughs, and it's not a happy sound. "Yes, you are."

The food and coffee arrives in time to cut the tension. Selina pours Jim a cup, accurately guessing he likes his black, and slides it across to him. Jim can't help but feel like it's a conciliatory effort on the her part.

"Besides, Detective," Selina says, tone teasing now. "If I don't stick my nose into trouble, how am I going to be able to check up on you and make sure you're doing OK? Especially since you've got no one to go home to anymore -- bachelor pads, eww."

"I could always get a cat," Jim offers.

"I know a few that could use adopting if you're serious," Selina fires back around a mouthful of cheesecake. Jim watches in not a little awe as she inhales half her cheesecake in the time it takes Jim to finish half his slice of blueberry.

"Hey, question," Jim asks, suddenly, feeling a little reckless. "Any interest in going to a Christmas party?"

The face Selina makes is priceless.

 

*

 

They find the jewels, they arrest a completely confused Clyde Fast-Hands.

"We got the bad guy, why aren't you happy?" Harvey asks around a hotdog.

"I'm just thinking," Jim says, and aborts the rest of that thought with a sigh. He's following Harvey, the two robbery detectives, and the uniforms back to the precinct to file the arrest paperwork -- Captain Essen's trade to keep him out of Arkham till the end of the day was for Homicide to lend their support in closing robbery's case.

"Thinking is bad for the blood pressure, kid," Harvey says into the conversational gap, watching Jim out of the corner of his eye. "Best to stop that nonsense while you're still young."

Harvey hands Jim a hotdog across their desk, which Jim takes on auto-pilot and even starts to eat before remembering the cheesecake which had left him somewhat over-full from lunch.

"Scarcely for a righteous man will one die," Harvey says.

"I'm sorry, what?" Jim blinks, trying to re-anchor himself in the present. Harvey sounds like he's quoting something, the stilted tone of his voice, but in the context of the paperwork in front of him, the words still make no sense.

"It's a biblical quote, I think. Clyde has it tattooed on his back," Harvey responds, sounding distracted.

"I can't help but think it's misappropriated," Jim says, raising an eyebrow.

"Still -- kind of an amusing thing for a criminal to have tattooed on their back," and just like that, Harvey's moved on.

"Hey, though, Harvey," Jim starts after a minute of watching his ex-partner. "This was nice."

"You're a sentimental ass, Gordon," Harvey doesn't even look up from the intake forms. "And you won't be saying that when you get returned to us. I can here it now, "Harvey, why are all the detectives being so mean to me, Harvey? Why does this coffee taste like socks, Harvey? Why doesn't the boy I like like me back?""

"Way to ruin the moment, Harvey," Jim says. Harvey looks up, takes a breath like he's going to say something, and burps loud and luscious. The smell of kraut and onions traverses the void of their desk, and Jim's face curdles.

"Now the moment's ruined," Harvey declares while Jim furiously waves a hand in front of his face and starts swearing a blue streak.

It's familiar, though, and it makes Jim's heart ache to think it may never happen again. He stays past end of shift, even agrees to let Harvey take him out for a drink, which is a predictably horrible idea.

Then it's a cold, damp, grey morning, and his alarm clock is going off at 6am, and Jim is falling off the couch, hung-over, and alone inside of Barbara's apartment.

It's a new day, and Jim hates the world for it.

 

*

 

"Gordon, call for you," Sergeant Rosati intones as briskly as possible, holding out the desk phone without looking up from what he's doing.

Jim swivels around in his chair, puzzled, looking up from prisoner intake face sheets. "Who is it?"

"How should I know, Gordon? Do I look like a mind-reader? I think it's social," Rosati says. "Which reminds me, no social calls on the desk phone. I know we don't get cell reception in here, but post duty is not the time to organize your social calendar."

"I know, Sarge, I didn't --"

"I don't want to hear it, just take the damn phone call and don't do it again," Rosati says, still not looking up, waving the phone in Gordon's direction until Jim gets up and snatches it from his flailing hand. He tucks the receiver under his ear and walks the telephone over to the most remote corner the cord will allow and sighs.

"Jim Gordon."

"Hello sir, I hope I haven't caught you at too terrible a time," Alfred's dry tone slides out of the phone and suddenly the call is a truly welcome distraction for Jim.

"Not at all, Alfred. Is everything alright?"

"As right as it ever is, sir. I'm calling on behalf of Master Bruce -- he was wondering if you had a moment to spare to come out for tea either today or tomorrow."

Jim had nearly forgotten he'd told Alfred to call him. "What time?"

"Anytime after 1pm, if it pleases, sir."

"Sure thing, Al. Tomorrow at 3pm work?"

"We'll be expecting you."

"Great, see you tomorrow," Jim says, and clicks the receiver back into place. It occurs to him that he's completely unprepared to try and convince Bruce to have a holiday get-together, let alone actually come close to convincing him to appreciate the holiday spirit.

Jim spends the rest of his shift as a result anxiously kicking his feet wracking his brain for ideas. All of the Christmas stuff in Barbara's place gone -- kept in the attic of her parents' house. And besides, trying to decorate a tree doesn't seem like an activity he'd likely be able to get Bruce behind even if the boy does agree to have a gathering on Christmas. The tree was something his family couldn't afford to have for a while -- things down to the dollars between paydays, even with overtime for Christmas, but his mother had a kit she'd drag out and make Jim come with her from tree stand to tree stand asking for the cuttings from the trees so that they could build wreaths.

Actually, it's possible he still has her old kit in the storage unit by the docks in midtown. Jim sits up and snaps his fingers. Leong sits up, started out of a snore and blinks at him. Jim grins at him like a maniac and cups his face.

"The hell?" Jim's partner grouses.

"Merry Christmas, Harry." Jim says, standing, patting him on the cheeks.

"Merry... Christmas?"

"Where you going, Gordon?" Rosati asks, preternatural senses alerting him to the movement outside the sanctuary of his back office.

"I got somewhere I gotta go, Sarge -- a family emergency."

"I'm gonna WOP you the remaining two hours if you walk out of here right now, Gordon."

"Jesus, WOP me then," Jim calls back sourly. "Merry Christmas to you too, Sergeant Rosati."

"I'm Jewish, asshole," Rosati shouts by way of a dismissal, and Jim rolls his eyes slamming the station door behind him.

Jim scuttles as quickly as he can over to his car and tosses his kit in, stripping off his uniform shirt as efficiently as possible and tosses it on top of his duffel bag. The storage facility his parent's stuff is in is run by one of Maroni's lieutenants who has a strong dislike of police. Jim's mom was his high school sweetheart, let her store stuff there for free even after she married Jim's father as a favor. He can't go in there in uniform, though. It's a bit brisk to be running around in an undershirt -- the wind has picked up, and while there are small piles of dirty snow that have been compressed into ice all along the Gotham streets, there's not much loose that's getting stirred up into flurries. Looking at the sky, though, Jim doubts snow will hold off for long, and besides: it's going to be colder by the water. He's got a Cornell sweatshirt that belonged to Barbara tucked under the passenger seat of the car, and gritting his teeth, Jim pulls it on over his head. It's a tight fit, and it still smells like her.

It's ninety minutes in traffic and another thirty to find parking since Jim can't use his GCPD placard on this block -- not if he wants wheels on his car when he comes back. Fifty-dollar bribe for the security -- who knows perfectly well that it's his mother's unit under her maiden name, but has the legal ability to hassle him because the unit's not in Jim's name if he feels like it -- who takes him up to the unit, and then Jim is alone with what's left of his parents.

He looks through a pile of boxes he thinks are the right ones -- he came across old Halloween decorations in one over here -- until he pulls out an old photo album after opening one of the boxes marked "89-90" and starts tentatively paging through it. It's pictures of the Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years before his mom's last tour of duty. It's pictures of Jim trying and failing to make short-bread cookies, it's pictures of his mother laughing, it's blurry attempts at getting all three Gorons in the same shot, but the joy seems to somehow seep through the old and yellowing prints anyway. Jim pulls one he must've taken (his mom and his dad's heads are cut off just above the eyeline and his mother is reaching for the camera as the shot was taken) himself when he was five years old. He stares at it a minute, folds it up, and tucks it into his wallet over the top of the one he has in there still of Barbara.

He sets the album aside, and pulls out a few more photo albums and moves them out of the way. There's a black tackle box covered in glitter with snap clasp locks at the bottom of the cardboard tomb. Jim stops and stares at it a minute, then dislodges it with delicate patience. He opens the clasp locks and looks inside, and it's all there in his mother's handwriting -- directions on how to make wreaths, what materials work best, what you should use for what purpose, wires and threads and tools. He reads through some of her notes, gets an idea of what's missing, then shuts the box, places the albums back where he found them, and carries his prize out of the unit.

Jim shakes the security's hand, wishes him a happy holidays, leaves Maroni's man shaking his head as he steps out into the street again, craft box under his arm. He takes a quick trip on foot to a stationary and wrapping paper store that's still independently run and standing a few blocks over from the piers, buys a few things that are missing from his mom's kit. The rest, Jim muses, Alfred will either have packed away somewhere or they can just improvise.

Jim pays his meter, takes the long way by the water back to the apartment. Debates ordering delivery once he gets upstairs, but falls asleep on the couch with the phone in his hand.

He wakes up once in the middle of the night, in the middle of a solemn and pregnant silence, and looks blearily around to try and figure out what woke him. There's a noise, a rhythmic banging, from somewhere behind him, and so Jim turns. The large floor-to-ceiling windows are washed out in a fluorescent green from the lights outside, a blizzard-like flurry of snow falling through the sky. Jim stands, stretching, and pads over barefoot on the wood of the floors to press his hand to the glass. It's magnificently cold under his palm, and Jim is lost in the sensation for long enough that the sudden confusion of motion and the same _blap blap blap_ nearly make him jump while his brain tries to catch up with what he's seeing.

Jim thinks it's a bird at first, but it's not -- Jim cocks his head to the side and watches the animal flutter away again into the night; it's a bat.

 

*

 

Jim adjusts his grip on the shopping bag and craft box while standing at the front door of Wayne Manor and tries the brass knocker again. It's just before 3pm. Jim is back to being worried that this attempt at Christmas is going to be a horrible failure. He's halfway to chewing on his lip -- a bad nervous habit that no amount of chapstick could ever hide -- when the door abruptly pulls open, and Alfred reveals himself dressed in an immaculate waistcoat and apron.

"Afternoon, sir."

"Hey Alfred."

"You brought ribbons to tea," Alfred observes, leaning forwards and looking in the shopping bag. "I'm not sure if I should be worried on Master Bruce's behalf."

Jim shrugs. "I need his help with something is all. Could use a second set of hands, and kid-sized ones actually do this better; I know from experience."

"I see," Alfred says looking unconvinced. "So this project isn't a continuation of our discussion a couple afternoons ago?"

"Maybe I'm killing two birds with one stone on that one," Jim says. "But could we maybe talk about his inside? It's freezing out here."

"Of course sir, my apologies. Come in," Alfred bows at the shoulders and steps aside. As Jim enters the house, though, the butler grabs his forearm. "But you won't be making him do anything he doesn't bloody well want to do, you understand?"

And the warning seems rough, but the raw concern on Alfred's face belays anything in his tone that might've gotten Jim's hackles up. Jim covers Alfred's hand with his own. "I promise, I won't."

Alfred hesitates a minute longer, staring at Jim, before nodding curtly and leading him into a lush room with several rear-facing windows and a large fireplace that's roaring, the smell of cedar wood pervading the air. In front of the fireplace is a set of couches and a short table, and that's where Jim and Alfred find Bruce, head in a book. Bruce looks up and smiles -- almost warmly -- as Jim appears, bookmarks and closes the book after setting it beside him on the couch.

"Detective Gordon, it's a pleasure to see you."

"Likewise, Bruce. You look well."

"Can I have Alfred get you anything to drink?"

"Coffee, please," Jim says, unsure for an absurd moment if he should be asking Alfred directly.

Bruce turns to his man and adds: "And a cup of the pu'erh with some of the spiced honey if we still have it please, Alfred."

"Right away, Master Bruce. Did you want tea service with the refreshments?"

"Are you hungry, Detective?" Bruce asks, and Jim takes a minute to observe how thin the boy is. He's sure it's not for a lack of available food, and while Alfred hasn't specifically confided in him that the boy's been skipping meals, it wouldn't come as a shock to Jim if it were true. So, despite not being all that peckish, Jim nods.

"I could go for some food, sure. Skipped lunch," Jim says. And while it's true, he's asked for the food mostly with the hopes Bruce will pick at it by default if Alfred brings it out and sees Jim eating.

The second Alfred exits the room, Bruce turns his gaze back on Jim, body practically vibrating with leashed curiosity.

"So what exactly is Alfred concerned about?"

Jim blinks at the lack of preamble. "I'm sorry?"

"Alfred's nearly worn a hole in the runner outside the kitchen from pacing the last week, besides -- he's fairly bad at containing his anxiety when I'm the subject of it. What did I do that Alfred's concerned about, and also so uncomfortable with he won't even broach the subject with me?"

Jim smiles before he can stop himself. "You asked me over just to pick my brain about what's been eating at Alfred?"

"You know him best, out of all my friends," Bruce continues, and Jim's impressed that he only barely notices how the word "friend" almost trips Bruce up. "And I felt a secondary opinion in the matter might help clarify what's bothering him."

"You could've also called me and asked, Bruce," Jim says, sitting down and easing into an armchair across from the boy.

"I prefer speaking face to face, especially about family," Bruce says, frowning slightly.

"Fair enough."

They sit in silence for a minute, before Bruce prompts: "So?"

"Bruce, do you hate Christmas?"

And it's Bruce's turn to blink at Jim. "I wouldn't use the word hate, no. That's what's bothering Alfred? Why?"

"Probably got that impression between the progression of you disappearing the angel tree topper to tossing the tinsel in the fireplace." Jim's amused to see that Bruce has the grace to look a little embarrassed.

"Would you believe me if I said I had perfectly valid and scientific reasoning for tossing the tinsel into the fire?" Bruce asks, grimacing.

"I might, but I wouldn't believe you if you told me the same thing about the tree topper, four boxes of tree ornaments, all the garlands, the tens of thousands of strings of lights, the candles in --"

"Point made, detective," Bruce cuts him off, but not unkindly. And then, after a moment, continues: "I can't believe Alfred had them all so precisely inventoried."

"You can't believe _Alfred_ had them _precisely inventoried_." Jim tries to see if repeating the sentence makes the statement sound any less ridiculous.

"It takes him weeks sometimes to find some of the backlogged Wayne Foundation files I ask for from the basement archive, and I'm not being critical, but these were Christmas ornaments. I just didn't think he'd realize they'd all gone missing as quickly as he obviously has," Bruce explains, sighing.

"He thinks you hate the holiday," Jim says. "Which, by the way, would be perfectly understandable and fine if you did."

"I don't hate it, I just don't see the point of it."

"You in the practice of torching things you don't see the point in?" Jim asks, as evenly as possible.

Bruce maintains eye contact for as long as he can, then starts chewing on his thumb nail and looks out the window to his left. "No."

"It's OK to be angry about things, Bruce," Jim tries, but the boy continues to look out the window and chew on his nail. Jim watches him from the chair, also making a mental note he hasn't heard Alfred walking around in the kitchen for a little while now. Abruptly, Jim stands, which gets Bruce to sort of half turn his attention back to Jim. The half of his attention still lagging behind wherever it is Bruce goes when he shutters down catches up once Jim sits down on the couch with Bruce and envelops the boy's hands in his.

"I want you to look at my face so you know I'm being as honest as I can be about this, Bruce," Jim explains, and tries again. "It's OK to be angry about things that happen in your life. It's OK to express that anger, too."

Bruce looks back cooly at Jim, and makes Jim wonder if the wreaths were a good idea after all. Jim aborts a sigh threatening to escape. "You know, Christmas was my mother's favorite holiday."

Bruce surprises him by replying: "Mine too. It was my mother's too."

Jim squeezes Bruce's hands gently. "Mine was a big fan of any holiday around this time of year because they focused on the idea of hope. And I've found that hope isn't much more than a promise you make to yourself to survive, to make it through till the next night. And hope comes in many forms, you know? In the generosity of a stranger inviting you to sit at their table, for example, or in the potential of a young child. In staying vigilant through the darkest night of the year. That's what winter brings out in us, or so my mom believed."

"She sounds like a good person," Bruce says, and Jim doesn't think he's going to cry, but Bruce's eyes look a little glassy.

"She was," Jim says. "And so was yours."

Bruce gives him a watery smile. Alfred picks that moment to rattle in the service tray as inelegantly as he can manage -- making as much noise as possible, Jim imagines, and watches Bruce jump.

"Tea with honey, coffee, and finger sandwiches, sirs. Hopefully to your liking -- curried carrots, egg salad, and cucumber," Alfred announces and starts laying the dishware on the table in front of them. Bruce scrubs at his eyes for a few seconds, during which Alfred takes the opportunity to wink conspiratorially at Jim -- who in turn, makes an exasperated face back at the other man.

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce says, smiling at the man briefly, before picking up a small square of a sandwich and bringing it to his mouth.

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Actually, Alfred, I was hoping -- if you were up for it Bruce -- that we might go for a walk out to the evergreen grove you pointed out to me the other night," Jim says, looking at Bruce.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "I'd be more than happy to accompany you, Detective, but it seems a little chilly out for a casual stroll. The sun is going to be set in another half-hour."

"It's not just a walk around the grounds, I need your help with a project."

"A project?" And Jim and see Bruce's interest piqued.

"I'll explain as we go, I promise. Alfred, could we get our coats?" Jim asks.

"Of course, sir. Did you need me to get you anything from the manor to assist you in your _project_ , sir?" Alfred says, looking at Jim skeptically.

"Pruning shears, if you have them," Jim counters, and catches Alfred rolling his eyes.

"I do. I'll get them out from the garage shed on our way to the grove, then. Let's get you two bundled up," Alfred sighs.

"We're not going to go cut down a tree, are we?" Bruce asks, suddenly hesitant.

"No, Bruce, no Christmas trees this year, I promise," Jim huffs out, trying not to laugh.


End file.
